If Hating You Were an Option, I Still Wouldn't Choose It
by deadly medley
Summary: Whoever said Peter Pan's story had a happy ending, obviously had never met the guy. (Or, the one where Peter really wants Henry, and Henry just wants everyone to be happy.)


**Summary:** Whoever said Peter Pan's story had a happy ending, obviously had never met the guy. (Or, the one where Peter really wants Henry, and Henry just wants everyone to be happy.)

**Author's Notes:** Someone please tell me how I've found myself on the Panry ship. Just — how? I can't deny it, though, these two idiots are meant to be and I can't. I've tried to fight them off, but at this point, it's impossible. Soooo… here's a semi-angsty fic I wrote.

Also, I haven't put this on my other fics, but I don't have a beta, so any and all mistakes are mine. And I don't own OUAT.

**Henry is sixteen in this, not eleven. **Enjoy!

* * *

On any other day, the crackling of the fire would've been intriguing. The loud laughter of the dancing boys, and the smacking and cracking of their sticks would've bought a smile to Pan's face because it was just another sign of his victory. It was just another indication that he'd taken the loneliness and abandonment and the anger and fear out of these boys and gave them something to smile and laugh and dance about.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the swimming fire was infuriating, and the Lost Boys were unbelievably… _annoying._ It was a problem Pan had never experienced before. Despite his unbelievably short temper, Peter didn't find very many things annoying. (But when you're a kid, not very many things are.) And these boys – they were his brothers, his best friends, his family, his entire world, to be honest. And even when your family makes you angry, even when you think you hate them, you wouldn't describe them as annoying.

But the boys were, honest to God, annoying the hell out of him.

He wanted to yell at them all to shut up, put the goddamn sticks away, and go to bed or something. And they would listen to him. He had no doubts about that. Because he was their fearless leader, and they were his devoted followers, and as far as they were concerned, his word was law and he was never wrong.

He couldn't do that though, and he knew it. Because if he sent them to bed (one of his very few rules being that there was no such thing as bed time), it would raise questions. And maybe they wouldn't ask, but they would wonder. Wondering would lead to thinking, which, God _forbid_ they ever do. But if they really thought about it, _really thought_ back to when this all started, they would come across much more than they bargained for.

The Lost Boys were a lot of things – dejected, abandoned, unloved, hurt, runaways, silly, aggressive – but stupid was not one of them. They were fighters, after all. And a stupid boy in a fight was just _begging_ for trouble. Peter trained these boys himself, and he knew just how intelligent they were.

It wouldn't take very long for them to make the connection between when he became snappier and when the purest, biggest, truest believer made his second grand entrance. And, oh, how grand it was. Well, to Peter, it was. The boys, though…

They never said it to his face. The last thing they wanted to do was provoke him, turn his wrath on them. But they talked to each other. And he overheard. "All of that fuss," they would say. "All those years, looking for this kid, _all over again_, and that's all he is. He's still just a kid. How does Pan expect him to do anything?" While, yes, that was more than enough to make him want to strike the boys down like the hand of God, he knew they were right.

Henry Mills, or whatever he was going by these days (too many goddamn family lines, honestly), was just a kid. Unlike his grandmother (Snow), he didn't have a past of running away or thieving or fighting to survive. Unlike his grandfather (Charming), he didn't have years of being a leader and a swordsman, or even a shepherd. Unlike his mother (Regina) or grandfather (the Dark One), he didn't he have magic, or a dark heart. Unlike his father, he didn't have any past on the island (well, he did, but he had happy memories, for the most part; nothing would help him survive), or a past of struggling to survive. Unlike his mother (Swan), he was no Savior. Unlike the pirate, he didn't have a hook, or a sword or a way to navigate or… anything_._

He was a just a kid. A sixteen year old boy with a too big heart and big dreams, who trusted too easily, and loved with all of his heart, even when he shouldn't have. A kid that was firm in his beliefs, but so gullible, and naïve. He was no Savior. There were no written prophecies about him saving anything, let alone something as big as magic. The only indication that Henry was relevant at all was in the picture Pan kept on his person.

That was it. That was how Pan knew Henry would save his island, his youth, his family, his life – a hand drawn picture that he couldn't remember if he drew himself, or obtained from some poor soul who'd long since passed. In the end, it didn't matter. It was too late to think back and dismiss the picture because for the last who knows how many years, he's been basing all of his actions and beliefs on that goddamned picture.

But he knew. He'd always known that Henry was the one. He would be the one to keep Neverland alive, and to keep Peter alive. He would be the Lost Boy of all Lost Boys. And maybe now, Henry was a whole-hearted believer in love and family and _good always wins_, but if things went according to plan…

They would. He didn't go through decades, centuries, ions of waiting and hoping and planning, for this to not work, twice. No, this would not go to hell _again_. This time, good wouldn't win. _But aren't _you_ good?_

Now that… that one was tricky. Pan was, by no means at all, a good guy. He was his own ruler, he owned this island. Everyone on it played by his rules. He didn't mind ending a life for his own selfish gain. Even more, he liked slow and painful deaths. Let the poison take its course, leaving the person in pain for days and days… No, Pan was no good.

But his cause? Could that ever be defined as _bad_? He wanted to save magic – for himself, yes, but also for the boys. They didn't have anything else. This island was all they had, all they would ever have. By now, their parents have passed on, their siblings grown and married, with families of their own. They had no desire to go back to that. The boys hadn't missed their so-called families in ages. They wanted to stay here, and he wanted them here. If magic left, so would they. What happened after that… Peter couldn't tell you if he knew.

But he'd be damned before he let those boys live the rest of their lives in misery.

So, he had to believe. He wasn't the truest believer, or anything of that effect. But if he didn't believe in this, who would?

_Henry would._ The thought came unexpectedly, but Pan didn't doubt its truth. Even if Pan's basis for his beliefs lied in an old drawing, Henry lived up to his title. The immortal boy had met a lot of people in his life time, but he'd yet to meet anyone who believed in anything more than Henry, or even half as much as the boy.

Even if Peter didn't think his premonition was true, Henry would.

And maybe that was what started this. The fact that once Henry put his faith in something, nothing could convince him otherwise. When Henry believed in something, he truly believed in it, regardless of what anyone had to say. After all, wasn't that how he got here? He believed in the curse, he believed in his mother, he believed in magic. Screw Emma Swan, Henry was the reason any of this happened; had it not been for him and his faith, they'd all still be living a meaningless existence in a made up town.

Because he hadn't let anything take away his faith.

_Nothing but you, of course._ Not a good thing, but it rose a marvelous feeling within the elder boy. The fact that he, who knew Henry for the shortest of any on Neverland, had that much power over the boy. He had enough influence to make Henry doubt his family, doubt his loyalties, doubt everything he knew. Even his own mothers couldn't change his beliefs in such a way.

Only Pan.

And maybe that excited him more than it should, but he'd spent thousands of years waiting for this boy. Hoping that he wasn't wrong, praying to a God that he'd long since stopped believing in that this kid would be the one. What a relief it was to know that even if this boy didn't believe in his cause, Pan had the power to make him.

"Why am I here?"

Peter looked up from the pipe in his hands, and smirked. Because there he stood: Henry Mills, in all of his annoyed, unafraid, and completely, totally and utterly _bored_ glory. "Honestly, Henry? Back to this? One would think that after five years on the island, you'd get it."

"One year," Henry corrected, his eyes snapping up from the still dancing boys, to the arrogant leader. "One year when I was eleven and…now."

"But it doesn't feel like you ever left, does it?" It may not have been the nicest move, but it was familiar and it gave Peter a sadistic thrill. He played this game with Henry's father, and he had no qualms playing it with Henry.

"No," Henry answered honestly, and Pan couldn't decide how he felt about the casualty and ease that came with the answer. "But I know I did. And we both know that history is just going to repeat itself. You're not going to win, Pan." He sounded like a tired parent trying to explain something to a misbehaving child, and it made Peter angry. He may have been a child, but he didn't need a goddamn parent.

"And why is that?" Pan challenged, standing up from the log he usually perched himself on. He took a step towards the younger boy, slightly towering over him, but Henry didn't back down. Not that he expected him to. In fact, the boy took a step of his own, and for a moment, Pan was lost in the boy's hazel eyes. He quickly snapped out of it. The fact that Henry could distract with a single glance did nothing but make Pan angrier. "Because good always wins?"

"Yes. Good won when I was ten and eleven, it won when I was thirteen and fifteen, and it's going to win this time around, too. Don't you get it? You're never going to win."

Peter didn't question what happened when Henry was thirteen or fifteen, because he already knew. He could describe in vivid detail what happened those years, and in the less important years of twelve and fourteen. Even when Pan wasn't there, he was always watching.

"So, what? You think your family's going to come and save you? Go through the year of heartbreak, and pain, and fear that they went through the first time?"

"They will," Henry snapped. "I won't fall for that again. They loved me enough to get me the first time, and nothing's changed. They'll come back for me the second time."

"And when they do? Will you go with them?" The question wasn't as humorous and light as Pan hoped it would be. It was as serious as anything coming from his mouth ever could be. It gave too much away, and Pan cursed himself for the slip up.

And Henry saw it, too. Pan could tell by the shift in Henry's eyes. It was subtle, but it was there. That look of surprise, then confusion that quickly turned into anger. "That's none of your business."

"In fact, it is." _Because you're _mine. "You're the Savior."

"No, I'm not!" Henry exploded. "Emma was the savior, and she did her job! And I did mine, Pan, what more do you want from me?"

"What do you think?" He didn't mean to snap. Honestly. Despite his short temper, he was usually good at keeping his cool when it came to Henry. But he was getting sick and tired of that damned question. Tired of hearing it from Henry, and tired of hearing the subtle version of the question from the boys.

The two stared at each other for a moment before Henry released an exasperated sigh. "Have you ever heard of a straight answer, Pan? Because in the five years I've known you, I don't think you've ever given me one!"

The older boy's lips twitched. "I thought it was only one year."

Henry let out a frustrated noise, throwing his arms in the air. "You're impossible." He turned to walk away, but didn't make it more than a step before Peter's hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him back.

(Oh, cue the flowery background. If this wasn't a scene straight from world's corniest animation, then what was?)

Henry stilled. He closed his eyes and took in deep breaths. Pan pulled him further back, so that the Henry's back was pressed into his chest, and resisted the urge to wrap his arms around the younger boy's waist. Instead, he let his fingers slowly trail across Henry's wrists. They stood in relative silence, both tuning out the loud laughing and cheering of the boys behind them.

"Pan," Henry finally whispered after a minute or so.

Peter hushed him. This was the closest thing to a moment he'd ever had. Well, besides Wendy, that was. But he was willing to write that off as a moment (or decade) of insanity. He was never in love with her. He was obsessed with her. But could you blame him? Decades upon decades, surrounded by boys that were like his brothers – and a crazy fairy who tried too hard, if you asked him – of course he yelled love at the first sign of a woman.

And he thought she was in love with him, too. But she wasn't. Just like he didn't love her, she didn't love him. She loved what he could give her. A life away from her family. A world of magic. With just two words, and a bit of emotion, she could fly and go anywhere and do anything she wanted. She could live every child's dream – being free and able to fly.

She wasn't in love with him, she was in love with the island. And he wasn't in love with her, he was just in love with the idea of someone loving him.

With Henry, though, it was different. It wasn't just an infatuation, with a pretty word like _love_ wrapped around it. It wasn't an obsession, born from too much time around the boys, or just _boys_, period. It wasn't a need to feel something different or to be around someone different. Henry was a boy. Though he lacked the recklessness and the cruelty of a Lost Boy, he wasn't much different from them.

But there was something about him that drew Peter in. Calling it a fatal attraction would be putting it lightly. Anyone with half of a brain could tell that this was a bad idea, and there was no happy ending for them. There was no ending where Pan came out on top, with his boys and his island and his Henry and his powers and his immortality. There was no golden crown and throne at the end of the journey. When it was all said and done, Pan would lose one, two, three or maybe all of the things he worked so long and hard for.

He knew that. Yet, in this stolen moment, he couldn't care less. Because, right now, he _did_ have all of that. He was still young, he could still hear and see the Lost Boys dancing around the fire, he could still disappear from here and end up anywhere he wanted on Neverland. He was holding Henry in as close of an embrace as he feared he would ever get.

Was it love? It was a question he'd tried to avoid for years. Even before he met Henry, five years ago. On those nights after the boys had finally tired themselves out and had fallen asleep in various places. Those nights when he would lie awake, silently fearing for the future of their home. When he would pull out that old drawing and stare at it, getting a rush of strength and hope and power that he'd been lacking just seconds before. Even then, the question came to his mind, but he had purposefully pushed it away.

He couldn't be in love. He couldn't afford to fall in love. Or delude himself into thinking he'd fallen in love. Not again. The first time had left him with such an empty feeling, that was slowly replaced with hate, anger, malice and the need for revenge. It wasn't even real then; he couldn't bear to think of what would happen if he really was in love, and it didn't end like the fairy tales those movies made his life out to be.

Love was nothing to be celebrated. The thought of it didn't make him want to smile or jump around in happiness. It didn't bring tears of joy to his eyes. He didn't feel butterflies. All he felt was anger. Anger and despair that he'd once again let himself fall for a dream. Because that was all this would ever be. This _love_ could never produce anything worth smiling about, he knew.

Even with that thought in mind, he couldn't help but want to be closer. He wanted to wrap Henry in his arms and hold him close, sheltering him from the both the dangers and pleasures of this world. He wanted to let his lips wander over the teen's impressive form. He wanted to feel the boy shiver under his trailing fingers. He wanted to undress the boy, bringing them as close as any two people could be. And maybe he wanted more. Maybe he wanted to watch Henry wake up, watch the sleep disappear from his eyes. Maybe he wanted to hear the grogginess of his voice in the morning. He wanted to hear the boy chuckle, then wince from what a night they'd had together. Pan wouldn't apologize. And he couldn't apologize now, for wanting to be closer.

"Peter," Henry spoke again, brining Pan out of his thoughts.

"You know why you're here, Henry," Pan replied, getting straight to the point. It annoyed him that it was all Henry had to say to him. Of all the things they had to talk about, _that_ was the topic of choice? But he wouldn't complain. Henry had yet to try to detach himself from the immortal. "I need you to save Neverland."

"Is that the only reason I'm here?"

Pan paused at the believer's knowing tone. It unnerved him how the naïve teen could see straight through him, and he suddenly missed the old days, when Henry was so easy to deceive. That particularly trait hadn't changed, but something had. Maybe it was him, Pan mused. Maybe he was more see through, now.

"Don't do that," Henry snapped when Pan tensed up, knowing exactly what the boy was doing. Putting up walls. Lining up his defense with sarcasm and venom and sadistic humor. _Don't run away from this_, his tone said.

For the first time in thousands of years, Pan found himself speechless. He hadn't seen this one coming. He didn't expect to fall so hard for someone he could never truly have, and he didn't expect Henry to see through him. What was he to say? _I'm in love with you?_ He couldn't even admit that to himself. _I'm miserable without you by my side?_ Sounded too much like the first option. "The boys missed you." It was undoubtedly the flimsiest lie he had ever uttered and Pan hated himself for the words.

Henry let out an unimpressed snort and took a step away, much to Peter's displeasure. He turned back to look at his captor, and suddenly the six inches between them felt like worlds between them. Pan didn't like it. "It isn't bad," Henry informed the leader.

Pan raised an eyebrow.

"Loving me," Henry clarified, and Pan froze. "It doesn't make you a bad person." Peter scoffed. He didn't need his sexuality issues to make him a bad person. He did that all on his own. "And… maybe it's a good thing."

"I don't see how my falling for you could ever be a good thing."

Henry shrugged, but gave him a hopeful look. "Love is a powerful thing. It's how my family survived." Pan noticed how he deliberately avoided mentioning true love's kiss. As if that would be the thing that exposed the big, purple, polka-dotted elephant on the island. "It's how the curse broke. Maybe you being in love with me can help."

It was a farfetched idea. A distant dream, at best. But Pan was willing to entertain the idea if Henry was. "So what? You believe that me falling for you is the key to my success? That that's the thing that'll save us all?" He took a step forward and took pleasure in the way Henry's breath caught in his throat at the lack of space between them now. Pan's hands ached to reach out and touch the boy, but he knew he couldn't. Not now. "You think true love's kiss will save Neverland?"

Henry stared in eyes for a moment before nodding slowly. "Maybe."

It was insane. For a second there, Pan wondered if he'd recruited a crazy man to save his island. Because in order for true love's kiss to work, the love would have to be reciprocated. Henry would have to love Pan, just as much as the leader loved him. And Peter had long since convinced himself that the boy felt nothing but hatred and pity for the boy that constantly put his family through hell. And, looking into his eyes now, he knew it was true. There was no love there. Maybe Pan wasn't an expert on the disease, but he'd seen it many times, in the eyes of his pawns. The look Henry gave him now was far from the look Snow White and Prince Charming gave each other.

But there was something. Maybe not love… but something.

"You don't love me," Peter reminded the boy quietly, allowing his hand to come up and graze the side of Henry's face. He fought back a smile when Henry didn't flinch or even blink at the contact.

"No," Henry admitted after a moment. "It's hard not to hate you. You hurt everyone I love. You hurt _me. _You lied to me, Pan. Repeatedly. You made me believe I wasn't loved. You made me feel forgotten, abandoned, unwanted. You made me feel lost. I gave up on the one thing I ever truly believed in – love. The love that my family had for me. You took that away from me, Peter. You almost killed my grandpa. You made my mom choose between the two men she loved. You almost killed everyone I care about." Every word was a stab to Peter's heart, and he had to tear his gaze from Henry. It seemed like it pained to boy to make such confessions.

"I don't love you," Henry continued. "But I don't hate you, either. What you want, it's not – it's not a bad thing. It's not some selfish scheme you came up with for your own amusement. You really want to save the island and the Lost Boys. The way you went about it was way wrong, but _you_ weren't wrong." As if that made any sense. "Maybe our tactics were different, but you wanted the same thing I did – to keep the ones you love safe. I can't hate you for that."

"Then what do you feel?" Pan knew he was stepping onto dangerous territory. No, he'd passed that mark a long time ago. He was traipsing over molten lava, with a blindfold tied tightly around his eyes. But he was too far in. If he stopped now, he'd fall and there was no escaping that.

"I don't know," Henry stated slowly, finding Pan's eyes again. "But I'm willing to figure it out."

On one hand, it was endearing. The fact that Henry hadn't run from this, but had embraced it made Pan's heart do deadly flips and seductive twists. Peter didn't think Henry would ever be one of the many assholes who seemed revolted by the thought of a man loving another man, and titled it _homophobia_, as if they were actually afraid. No, Henry was his own person. He was accepting, and loving, and maybe a bit too curious for his own good, but his heart was in the right place.

On the other, though, Henry's offer did nothing but fill Peter with what he knew to be false hope. If this didn't work out, if Henry could never muster up the strength to love him, Pan would be left with a broken heart. He would be the one to pick up the pieces and glue them back together, then bandage his scarred fingers. He would be the one to put on a brave face for the Lost Boys, even though he wanted to do nothing more than break down and cry. Henry had nothing to lose here. Pan's heart was on the line, and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take just yet.

He laced his fingers with Henry's and used his other hand and guide the boy's head closer to his. His heart panged painfully when Henry closed his eyes. He wanted a kiss. No, he didn't want one. He expected one. Because he knew Pan wanted one. The elder boy stifled a sigh and ghosted his lips over the boy's lips. It could hardly be called a kiss but it was as close as they could get, before Pan threw away all inhibitions and tacked his heart onto his sleeve, leaving it bare and vulnerable and Henry's for the taking.

"It's late," Pan muttered and he cringed at how motherly he sounded. "You should rest. Your family will be looking for you in the morning." _And you'll try to escape, and I'll mindlessly chase you, and we'll keep playing this damned game…_

"Peter," Henry started, but he stopped himself. After a few more stolen moments in that position, Henry stepped back. Pan's hands fell to his side and he watched as Henry hesitated before walking away. And then he was alone again, standing by the fire. It was as if nothing had transpired between the two boys. The world stopped for no one, he knew that, but it seemed like it. None of the boys seemed to have noticed anything was amiss, and the fire hadn't grown or diminished in the minutes that Henry and himself had shared.

Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Peter Pan, all alone with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the cheers of his brothers to keep him company. This, he was sure, was how he would spend the rest of his eternity. The thought brought a sick sense of comfort.


End file.
